


it was not death (for we stood up)

by unhookingstarswithoutpermission



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Aaron, Panic Attacks, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Suicide mention, Tags Are Hard, What Have I Done, i'm gonna add tags as i add chapters, kind of, not in first person tho, they are lawyers, violence mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhookingstarswithoutpermission/pseuds/unhookingstarswithoutpermission
Summary: “Wait!”, he manages to cry before Alex has slammed the door, and he's running away. Aaron thinks, history repeats itself; it's better if we stay away from one another. (He doesn't want to). 
  
  He feels numbness creeping all the way to his fingers; he can't avert his gaze from the door. He doesn't cry. (He didn't cry back then, either).
  
  History may repeat itself, but why does it have to be so cruel? Back then Alex meant little to Aaron – he was just a memory of cold New York nights and drunk escapades – but this time around he has fallen in love with him hard, slowly and steadily. 
  or, the Hamburr Reincarnation!AU no one asked for.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> well, it seems i've fallen down the hamburr hell  
> hope you can forgive me for all the angst i'm gonna bring (not in this chapter tho, this one is so fluffy, omg)  
> the title is from Emily Dickinson's "It was not Death, for I stood up", even though I've slightly altered the original (thanks to my bff for the advice!)  
> hope you like this!

Alexander has bright eyes and an even brighter smile, as he strolls his way through the office for the first time, making a beeline for Aaron's desk. His stunning features distract him for a whole second: Alexander is still far, but Aaron has already sized him up. He's short and jumpy, probably younger than him, very handsome, not white, and probably not hetero as well, if Aaron's queer radar hasn't failed him – and when has it ever? And then, even if it had, Alex's scarf is knitted in the bisexual pride flag's colors. Not exactly the subtlest thing in the world.

Alexander stops in front of him with an unabashed grin gracing his lips, and he doesn't break eye-contact when he extends a hand and vigorously shakes Aaron's. “Aaron, sir?”, he asks, all politeness and charm, and before Aaron can even think he shoots back, “That depends, who's asking?”

His remark makes Alexander blush and stutter for a second, but he doesn't waste another moment before introducing himself, “I'm Alexander- I've heard that you're only a year older than me and already head of this department. How'd you do it?”

“I-” Burr hesitates, bedazzled and dizzy from how quickly the words flow from Alexander's lips. It's a question few people have asked him, so he is tentative, not knowing yet how much information is too much. “My parents have always worked in this field, and they wished I would follow their inclinations after they passed away”, he settles for saying, at last. It _is_ partly true, but it doesn't reply to Alexander's question at all.

Alexander looks at him with wonder and what seems like giddiness, and he goes: “You're an orphan? Of course! I'm an orphan, too!”, and Aaron wonders what kind of troubles he's just got himself into.  
  


* * *

  
When Aaron discovers what kind of troubles he's got himself into, it's too late to do anything about it, except maybe considering death by combustion or murder. If it's his death or Alexander's he's thinking about, it's not something he's going to say out loud.

It all starts when Alex comes to work late – which is quite a tragedy unto itself, at least for Alex's standards – and looking positively horrible. His shirt, which once was white, is battered and dirty, blood staining the fabric in the most unlikely spots. His jeans and his sneakers, while certainly not clean, are actually not that bad.

Aaron follows his movements with quiet disbelief, until he gets close enough that he can see his face well. He has a cut on his left cheekbone, a swelling below the opposite eye; he has almost no trace of blood on himself, but – somehow – he looks even more tired than usual. And, the most annoying detail between everything else, he's _grinning_.

Alexander sits at his place as usual – he doesn't give a shit about the dirty looks aimed at him and he doesn't seem to mind his current state. Aaron has the courage, the _audacity_ of thinking, for a split second, that he certainly won't keep on working like that; he's only come here to – retrieve something, call in sick in person, he doesn't know. But then Alex's serious work expression slips on as he scrambles on his desk and, before Aaron can even consciously decide to, he is already making his way toward him. The whole office is watching them but, surprisingly, Aaron can't bring himself to care; instead he fixes his gaze on Alexander and cautiously lowers his head.

There's a quirk, which seems so usual on Alex, that Aaron has never completely understood until that very moment. Alex always tends to search the eyes of the people he's talking to as soon as he can and he takes great care in watching them straight in the face while they are talking. So Alexander, raising his head at the unfamiliarity that is a close-up of Aaron's shadow, immediately meets his eyes; Aaron can see the spark of fear that flickers there but is immediately put off by something else.

“Alexander”, Aaron wonders for a second what else should he say. That he wants to patch him up? That he wants to help? But this would be too straightforward, and everyone would hear. Alexander would refuse, proud as he is – _oh, fuck this_ , he thinks. “Follow me”, he orders, and he sees Alexander's eyes get foggy and disoriented for a second before he's already up and ready to comply.

There is a service toilet just behind their office, and if someone saw them entering it they'd think god knows what; but Aaron is sure there is a first aid kit there, so there's that. Alexander does not joke about _anything_ he could joke about, but he stays silent and confused, waiting by the door while Aaron rummages through the drawers.

“Sit on the sink”, he instructs calmly, “and turn on the lights”. “Please”, he adds as an afterthought once he is facing Alexander again; he makes a face at him.

“Thank you”, Alex whispers – it's so strange to hear loud, harsh-worded Alexander speak with a voice this gentle. He ignores his words all the same; instead he picks up a cotton ball and begins to say, “I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about the shirt”. Alex snorts and shoots back, “Yeah, I guessed that”, but Aaron isn't listening; he searches his face thoroughly for scratches and decides the one on the cheekbone is the first that should be treated.

Aaron applies the disinfectant as carefully as he can, but he knows it's going to sting anyway. Alex visibly flinches at the contact, so, in an attempt to make him relax, Aaron asks, “What happened?”

Alexander puts up a (fake) embarrassed expression for a whole second before starting his narration. On his way to work, just round the corner, he met a man giving a speech, he says. He was early as usual, so he allowed himself to linger and listen; but he couldn't _just_ listen after the man started explaining why democracy is a lie and why the constitution is bullshit- “He was so stupid, Aaron!”, Alex exclaims with a questionably loud voice and Aaron, who has mended almost every scratch, sighs. He is sure that he's wearing a completely unreadable expression, at least until Alex pouts and tells him, “Oh come on, don't make _that_ face”. Aaron wonders what _kind_ of face is that face.

“Shut up”, he replies, careful to let a chuckle come out along his words; Alex's shoulders lose their tension at once. “And stay silent, because you have _somehow_ got a cut on your lip”, he adds, returning to his ministrations. Aaron keeps on talking; he asks, “You want an advice?”, looks up at him; the tiny bathroom is uncomfortable, he has to bend over to reach Alex's lips. “Talk less, smile more”, he states at last, pulling away.

Alexander is back on his feet in seconds. _He shouldn't have this much energy_ , Aaron thinks, just as he hears him half-shouting, “What?”.

Aaron catches his tongue a couple of seconds before he tells him that he has a handsome face, so he'd better put it to good use rather than get it punched. _What?_ , he asks himself, amazed by how his brain choose to go down _t_ _hat_ road, and says instead, “It'll save you a lot of trouble”. Alexander instantly goes, “I know how to fight”.

Aaron eyes him, starting from his tired eyes and ending on his bloody knuckles – which he has not disinfected yet; he doesn't even tell Alexander before doing so – and at last murmurs, “Yeah, I think even _I_ could take you down”. He sets his gaze back on Alex's face, sees how he's staring in disbelief to their hands still touching and how his eyebrows are furrowed and a crease cuts his brow, and honest-to-god laughs. Which is an even more startling sound, it seems, because Alexander looks up in surprise and spends too long observing his face before smiling back. Then he says, again, “Thanks”; he doesn't leave Aaron's hand; he leans in and kisses him just below his cheekbone, then disappears. Aaron is left to stare at his reflection, wondering what the _fuck_ was that.

He should have known that _this –_ the mending and the hands and the laugh and the peck – was just the beginning of everything else.  
  


* * *

  
Aaron _does_ have feelings. He is, actually, always aware of both his and the people around him's feelings: but he has found out that empathy is not always the best road to follow, and showing one's emotions is the easiest way to find a metaphorical knife against one's throat.

He doesn't hide his feelings, he just doesn't talk about them; and it's easy, far too easy. In his experience, people prefer to talk and to think of themselves first; it's only obvious, then, that very few people would have the patience to get to truly know him. The problem is that he is so not used to have someone asking about personal stuff that he recoils whenever someone does; he hates himself in those moments, hates the doubts and the fears he can never escape. He's working on it.

Alexander wears his heart on his sleeve or, at least, so it seems: it's not even been a month yet and he's already made friends throughout the whole office. Aaron has seen him angry, euphoric, sad; every morning he doesn't know how Alex will behave, but he gets quicker in understanding him. There are _signs,_ once he knows how to search for them: a twinkle in his eyes, for example, or the messiness of his ponytail, or how battered he seems. He knows, he just does, that loose hair that curtain his face and the disappearance of the crease that seems to have settled on his brow mean that he's bordering euphoria. That's how he doesn't flinch when his too-loud, too-near voice reaches him, how he can look at him dead-serious and with an eyebrow raised. The rest of the office seems surprised each time, but Alex is not amazed: he's – or he seems – _pleased_.

Aaron can't find any explanation for Alexander's insistence in hanging around him. He seems determined to always greet him good morning and goodbye; he is always there when Aaron heads out to smoke a cigarette, even though Alex doesn't smoke. Aaron finds himself wondering how his delicate, long fingers would look while holding a cigarette; he always sees something of the person who's smoking in the way he holds it, and it's almost annoying that he doesn't get a chance to see that particular side of Alex.

What's even more annoying, though, is that he can't seem to understand Alexander at all.  
  


* * *

  
Alex is a great worker. Never resting, never stopping, he puts himself in his work like it is his life. Their boss is delighted by him, of course: he has been a great, probably already indispensable addition to their team. The problem is that Alex is not only young and reckless, but also quite inexperienced and foreign to their company's policies and to the technical side of the job, and while his determination is surely helpful it can't compensate for such things; so Alex is told to find someone he thinks will be a good partner and work with them for a while. Alexander, of course, singles out Aaron between all the possible candidates.

Their boss is quite shocked at Alex's resolution – Aaron is not the most talkative or agreeable person, and there is no reason Alex would be so cheerful in requesting him as his partner – but not as shocked as Aaron is when the news reaches him. So Aaron finds himself handling his whole department while trying to get hold of the most kid-like lawyer he's ever worked with, and he has worked with _many_.

Alexander is frustrating: he is at his desk perfectly on time, sometimes even earlier than he ought to be, smiling – or smirking? – at him and handing him his coffee. Aaron doesn't usually drink coffee at the office but Alex – who probably survives on this stuff, since he seems to always have dark circles under his eyes – insists on bringing him at least a small cup of coffee every morning and Aaron eventually adjusts to this routine. He still finds it ridiculous, especially because Alex's cup is three times bigger than his and usually needs a refill after lunch – that one is on Aaron, who has Alexander's order memorized, five creams one sugar, but at least the kid won't feel like he has to bring him another coffee.

Aaron soon learns that Alexander is unstoppable and, when the topic he has to research is interesting to him, clever and quick to find information; he is quite useful, even if Aaron thinks he would be even more so if he allowed himself a full night of sleep. (Alex never replies to his inquiries about _if_ he does actually sleep; he just grins. It's infuriating.).

There's no denying they work well together: Alex talks so much he eventually gets a good idea and Aaron fills in his blanks if – when – need be, and even if Alexander is not so keen on technical stuff (“It has a name, you know”, “I refuse to pronounce it”) Aaron is quite a good teacher. This does not mean that Aaron is inclined on speaking more: he actually finds it easier to stay silent about his opinions, at least until Alex shuts up and glares at him, almost angry, requiring his thoughts on this or that matter. Then Aaron speaks, never saying anything, much to Alexander's annoyance.  
  


* * *

  
(Trusting someone is quite frightening to Aaron. He doesn't do trust. He can manage respect, company, even affection; but to put his trust into someone else's hands seems so dangerous and useless.

He has an epiphany the first time Alex invites himself to his flat, claiming that it's for job necessities. They find themselves ordering take out not long after, already arguing about what the best way of watching Star Wars is.

Alexander falls asleep half way through The Empire Strikes Back, with his head resting on Aaron's shoulder.

Aaron is terrified.)  
  


* * *

  
Aaron has it as a rule: he doesn't scream, ever, especially if he can help it. He hates it, and he doesn't find the use in it: he is of the idea that, whatever it is he's talking about, it will be way more effective if he says it in his usual cool tone.

So, he doesn't scream. He forces himself to be collected. When Alex explodes (Aaron was just waiting for that to happen, because everyone _has_ and everyone _left_ , so he doesn't know why _this_ should be different), Aaron doesn't shout. He raises an eyebrow at him, holding his gaze; it's not difficult to let his mask slip on, he's used to doing that. He says, sounding completely unaffected, “Okay then. Go.”.

He shrugs his shoulder at Alex's disbelief. Crosses his arms over his chest, waits.

As soon as he doesn't hear Alex's steps anymore, he lets the first sob rip its way out his throat.

He thought that Alexander would know; that Alex would work it out. He's smart, he's quick. But Aaron shouldn't have let his hopes grow.

Alexander had said something about how numb Aaron is, how opinion-less, how mild; and even though those were words Aaron was used to hear about himself, they were _different_. Maybe it was the almost-disgust he could sense in Alex's voice as he spoke. Something had struck, and it had struck hard, and the argument had heated up until it was a flame, until Alex had said something along the lines of “I don't know why I'm even arguing with you for this reason, it's such a stupid thing!”

If Aaron's heart breaks there is surely no sound to be heard or to be witnessed: even his heart seems to be on silent mode. It would only be obvious, after all.  
  


* * *

  
He is not sleeping. He has just discovered that outside his apartment's window New York is always wide awake, no matter the time. It seems fair that so he should be.

When his phone buzzes he doesn't give it a spare glance. The texts keep coming in, though.

“I'm such an idiot”, he reads; then, “Please forgive me”, “I've got pizza”, “C'mon, open the door”.

He thinks it's a euphemism.

He's wrong.

Alex stands before him, grinning, a little embarrassed – he does have pizza. He doesn't look at him in the eyes.

Aaron doesn't know how to react, what to say, and the only thing he can manage is a weak, “It's the middle of the night, Alexander”. Then he stands aside, he allows Alex to enter the room.

He watches as Alexander puts the pizza on the small table in the living room and then leans against it, as if waiting for something. He discards his hat, makes a face at the foul stench of cigarettes that fills the room; Aaron is motionless, still dreading that this is only a dream. Eventually, Alex raises his head and walks toward Aaron, not saying a word until they face each other.

Alex hugs him and Aaron lets him, at least until he doesn't feel the urge to hug him back. Alexander's frame is small and warm, delicate against his shoulder; he can feel his chin on his shoulder, his hair tickling his neck.

Breathing seems a little easier.  
  


* * *

  
There are glances Aaron steals every day – sometimes they even follow him through the night. He can't exactly _avoid_ to notice things, not with his attitude of being constantly hyper-aware of his surroundings; and so he is, so he acts.

There is something _unspeakable_ about Alexander.

One day, they are talking to one another over a cup of coffee; it starts to rain. Alex turns his head at the furious noise of the rain hammering on the windows of the coffee shop. His eyes, light and blue and somewhat cloudy, catch the light in a way that's indescribable. Aaron stares for too long at the lights and darks of the swirls in his irises before gently nudging his hand from where it's resting, against the wood of the table, and asking him if he wants another coffee.

On another day, they are working on a project together – it doesn't matter that Alex doesn't really need guidance anymore; they work well together – in Alex's tiny flat. He's messy, something Aaron had imagined; so they have to sit on each other's lap to fit on the couch with their laptop and their take-out. Alexander slides his legs on top of Aaron's, plops the computer on his legs and starts typing frantically; Aaron takes his time, observing his skilled fingers at work, the way they are determinate yet delicate. For some reason they remind him of when he used to play the piano. He wonders if Alex knows how; wonders if he'd like to be taught, someday.

Alexander is so... so many things: there's the curve of his neck, how his body stretches in a way that can't possibly be comfortable or healthy for his back; the messy bun he wears when he's home; a Princeton university sweatshirt that is way too large for Alex's frame.

“Yeah”, Alex's voice reaches him; he has an eyebrow up and a smug grin on his lips, “I kind of borrowed your hoodie, it fit”.

Aaron feels a very funny want – _need_ – to bring Alexander's cheerful face down to his level and kiss both his grin and his breath out of him. He feels like his brain has short-circuited, but he doesn't mind at all; because even through his confusion he can feel the way his fingers clench on the material of the sweatshirt, the way Alex's lips part slightly and inviting, the gleam in his eyes and the way he holds his breath, his perfume, which may or may not be cologne, the trace of smudged eyeliner under his left eye, Alex's head tilts slightly to the right-

A cellphone rings. Aaron wants to _scream_.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Shots!” he exclaims while he's still trying to catch his breath. “C'mon, a tequila shot and we dance – don't make that face, you owe me a dance!”_  
>  _“I do_ not _owe you a dance”, Aaron clarifies, but he follows him anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say I was going to update this regularly? Well I failed  
> I just wanted to write about them dancing. I'm so sorry.  
> (Actually, I'm not.)

Aaron likes to think of himself as the calm before the storm. It's a much better metaphor to explain how he works, compared to the many descriptions-bordering-on-insults he has heard throughout his whole life: quiet, lonely and rich, he's always been the center of unwelcome attentions. He has learned to deal with them in silence.

A funny thing about his usual description is how he has never thought much about what he's implying: that after him – or beside him, or along with him – there is a storm to balance out his calmness. He has never given it much importance anyway, though; and even if he had, the casual thought alone is enough to cause a grin of disbelief to appear on his face, as he bitterly considers how improbable it is that someone would be willing to stand with him, as his counterpart.

Aaron is not one for this nauseatingly sweet thoughts anyway.

But then, just as soon as he's not thinking about it anymore and he has learned to live with his low expectations, Alexander steps into his life. He is a hurricane: the way he can – and will, or at least will try to – sweep away everything standing in his path, not giving it much of a second thought, tells Aaron this much at least. Used as he is not to destroy his obstacles but to overcome them by acting in cold blood, he cannot understand Alexander, no matter how hard he tries, but he can see just how victorious and satisfying his mannerism can be.

He expects to be eventually swept away as well; to his surprise, he isn't. Alexander is welcoming, always ready to fill with a never-ending flow of words the silence that will otherwise stretch into infinite; he is pedant and unrelenting, and sometimes Aaron can sense how hard he tries to get past the walls which stand so secure around him. At times, when Aaron takes pity on him, he pulls them down just a little to let him through: he deadpans responses, suggests and adjusts arguments, shows Alexander his weaknesses when it comes to debating. But, other times, his walls  _are_ swept down by Alexander with the same passion he puts in everything he does: then Aaron smiles or laughs or shouts his way through an argument, and never fails to catch Alexander's look, smug and almost scared at the same time.

One of the reasons why Aaron does not show his feelings is that he is afraid of rejection. Only Theodosia manages to handle him at his worst, and he has never risked – never wanted – to put anyone else in her place. Alexander, though, never gives up: he is careful but not gentle in his ways, doesn't manage Aaron like he's afraid he'll break suddenly. They fall in conversation, even on subjects that matter, with an easiness Aaron has experienced with very few people.

If Aaron was one for this nauseatingly sweet thoughts, he'd admit that maybe Alexander is the storm he's been waiting for all along.  
  


* * *

  
Aaron's tongue slips one day, and he tries not to panic and to tell himself that everybody makes mistakes while he waits for a reaction to his “You're awesome”, directed to none other than Alexander. He  _is_  awesome, though, in most of the ways he can think of: he is smart and so handsome and he is always happy, which is quite his definition of awesome, but he did  _not_  intend to speak it out loud.

Alexander's reaction is interesting as few things are. He seems confused, at first, and then his face lights up like he's a child: his eyes sparkle, his lips stretch in a genuine smile and there's the faintest resemblance of a dimple on his left cheek and  _oh shit,_  Aaron is staring. Alexander smiles, beaming, and he looks at him like he has never really seen him before. His smile turns gentler, less intense but somehow more charming, and he asks, voice low and warm, “Why don't we go out for drinks on Friday night?”

Aaron should have seen it coming; he should have sensed it, whatever  _it_ is, beforehand. And now he has to break Alexander's heart – oh, but why did he think himself important enough to presume he _would_ break his heart – and refuse him, because he could not – he would not – allow himself to fall into what feels like a trap.

Aaron says yes, welcomes the offer of hour and place, almost laughs out loud at Alexander's offer to pick him up - “We're at the office before, Alex, there's no picking up to do” - and cradles the dizzying feeling that has settled into the pit of his stomach.  
  


* * *

  
Aaron says yes and he _almost_ doesn't regret it, almost being the keyword: on Friday's afternoon he's frantically texting Theodosia, his best friend and platonic soulmate, not caring if (or how much) they are both neglecting their respective duties.

He has already told Theo about Alexander: he has described to her his little obsessions and his behavior, going so far – just once, while he was drunk – as to give a full description of his stunning face. Theodosia had joked and merrily responded, _should I get jealous?_ She had made Aaron come to terms with the fact that he had never been struck this hard by anyone before, and she would just give him a glance every time he scowled and refused her use of the words “your crush” to define Alex.

When Aaron tells her about the night out – which is  _so not a date_ , _he will probably bring his friends along, thank you very much_ – Theodosia is already calling the mysterious Alexander the “man of his dreams”. She is so happy, Aaron should probably feel ashamed about bringing her hopes down. She points out how he hasn't gone out with anyone in so long, says, “I'm not even sure that you have dated anyone after me”, and when Aaron remains silent she exclaims, “We were kids!”. Aaron doesn't reply, but he remarks that,  _technically_ , they were in high school. Theodosia states that she doesn't give a shit, technical or not, and that maybe he and his “hottie boyfriend” will go out with her and Dollie on a double date soon. Aaron had then decided it was time to leave.

Alex arrives at his desk a few minutes before they have to leave, follows his frantic typing with interest and asks, trying to keep it light and unassuming, “What's up?”. Aaron doesn't even look up, just raises his eyebrows and sighs, “Best friend”, then he mumbles something that  _may_  recall the words “such a pain in the ass”. Alex laughs loudly at that and replies, “Yeah, I know, John's not much better”, and as to give him confirmation his phone buzzes with what is probably John's text. The corners of Aaron's mouth curve upwards at his falsely discontented huff as he pushes aside the thoughts of  _you see, you two are not going alone, this is not a date_. He looks up and uses Alex's distraction as an excuse to stare: he is dashing, maybe more than usually, even though there is no sensible difference – Alexander's head shoots up before Aaron thought it would and he smirks like he knew exactly what Aaron was doing.

“So, shall we go?”.  
  


* * *

  
They have dinner in a cute little diner, where Alexander seems to be familiar with each and every one of the waiters. Aaron observes, as he usually does, his attention only fueled by the fact that his object of interest is Alex: he notices the way he always, always smiles whenever one of the waiters approaches the table, how he will engage a brief conversation with them, how he will mention people Aaron doesn't know and places that he has heard of. He introduces each of the waiters to Aaron, and many of them don't spare a glance in their direction afterwards; they are probably wondering why Alex would take such a silent guy to dinner with him, which is honestly only fair. In between introductions and the actual waiting, Alex fills the silence with his chattering, not really seeming to mind the fact that Aaron's attention is drifting on and off his voice. They eat something with a very complicated name, all rolled rs and unfamiliar sounds, which Aaron couldn't repeat to save his life. Alexander laughs in delight when he makes a face at the spiciness, only continuing to do so louder when Aaron raises an eyebrow and rolls his eyes.

Somehow, the two hours they spend sitting on tiny chairs right in front of each other pass in seconds. Alex has insisted that Aaron had to try all the Caribbean specialties and Aaron has complied, partly for the expression that lights up Alex's face and, mostly, because the food is actually great. They have been sitting in front of their empty table for ten minutes when a woman exits from the kitchen and makes way for their table. “Alexander!”, she calls out. Alexander's smile stretches so wide it must hurt before he jumps to his feet and practically runs into the held-out arms of the aforementioned woman. They exchange few words in Spanish, affectionate and still somehow hugging, while Aaron tries _hard_ not to stare at Alex's expression of absolute delight.

“Aaron”, Alex says as soon as they are near the table, still smiling, “meet Martha”.

It's unusual for Alex not to specify how he's related to someone, especially since they seem so close, but Aaron guesses the best thing he can do is to bring out his gentleman attitude. He shakes her hand and politely says, “Pleased to meet you, ma'am”.

Martha's contained smile gets just a little bit warmer and reaches her eyes. Aaron feels like he's won the lottery, especially when she says, “They need me in the kitchen”, then turns to Alexander, “you better show up soon”, then smiles towards Aaron again and states, “I like this one, you better keep him around”. At least she turns all the way toward Aaron's direction and says, “If he acts as the fool he is”, Alex chokes out a too-high-pitched “Martha!”, “you let me know, okay?”

Aaron knows it's an order, so he replies, “Yes”, and then adds, for good measure, “ma'am”.

Martha shoots him another pleased smile and turns back.  
  


* * *

  
New York City is beautiful and cold and Aaron doesn't object to Alexander's imperceptible shift closer; he recognizes it as a request for permission, which he immediately grants, until they are practically pressed together while being both too shy to properly hold hands.

“Where are we going?”, Aaron asks, his voice softer than he'd expected, while he stares into Alexander's clear eyes. There are streetlights reflected into his irises, and his nose is slightly more red than the rest of his face, and Aaron thinks,  _well, I'm fucked_.

“Dancing”, Alexander replies. “What?” Aaron freezes on his tracks, sure he has heard wrong, and prompts, “I'm not much of a disco person”.

“Oh- no, no!” comes immediately the clarification, “I figured that out- I'm not much of a disco person either, tbh-” Aaron scoffs at the way Alex spells out the letters instead of saying the full expressions, “in fact, I've said we're going dancing. To, you know, real music”.

Aaron doesn't really like dancing that much, even the not-disco stuff. It just feels awkward: he's never properly learned to lead and most of the time he's not even tall enough to lead, but he doesn't feel comfortable when he's being lead. He does know how to dance in general though, so he says, “That sounds better”.

“I know, right?” (“I'm amazed you didn't say ikr”. “What the hell, Aaron!”) “There's this little club just down the street, Martha used to work there when she was younger, I was practically brought up there- it's not so big, and not many people know it, so we'll be in a pretty quiet place.” Aaron can't help the sheepish smile of gratitude that graces his lips. He tends to feel overwhelmed pretty quickly, unlike Alex, and it's nice to know he has noticed. “And I do hope you can dance, because I'm not good at leading.” Aaron throws back his head in laughter and misses the way Alex's eyes shine at him.  
  


* * *

  
The club is intimate; almost _cozy_ , if Aaron were to be honest. It smells of women's cologne and alcohol, which is kind of what he was expecting, and the music is loud but, thankfully, not so loud that they can't hear each other. The walls are a sleek black, the same color of the bar and the tables scattered around the corners; the puffs and the chairs are a deep vermilion, almost the color of wine, shimmering under the bright red and gold lights that dance across the floor. Aaron feels the music playing as way more familiar than the one that would be playing in a disco, even though he could not pinpoint its genre; he leans into Alexander's hold to ask him. Alex is, as usual, already one step ahead of him: he gently pulls him in, resting his hand just below his hip – Aaron's shirt isn't _that_ thin, he shouldn't be able to feel it – and then he lowers his head until his lips are brushing Aaron's ear, asks, “Do you like it here?”

Aaron can physically feel his heart burst into a million tiny pieces. “Yeah”, he nods, already following Alexander to the bar. Neither of them wants to separate from the other, no matter how hot it is inside the club; so Alex's hand stays on Aaron's side and Aaron leans into it.   
“Drinks on me!”, Alexander exclaims. “What do you want?”

“Your pick”, Aaron replies, grinning his trademark side-way grin. Alex raises an eyebrow at him, intrigued, turns to the bartender.

“Bartender! Let me get an amaretto sour-” he stops for a moment, just enough for Aaron to realize that it's meant for him, and he hums in response, unsure of whether Alexander can hear him. “And a margarita, please!”

“Sure thing, Alex!”

Alex turns again, somehow still keeping his hand on Aaron's hip, and before he can even start talking Aaron is already telling him, “Good choice. I thought you'd drink something sweeter, though.”

“I'm full of surprises”, he states, and Aaron just blinks at him. He opens his mouth to say something else, but a girl quickly comes his way, screaming a high-pitched “Alexander!” that is heard through the whole bar. The girl – light-skinned, taller than him, with dark straight hair that flow all the way down her back – makes her way through the crowd, and Alex shoots an apologetic look at Aaron. “Go on”, he says, smile sweet and kind, “I'm not going anywhere”.

Alexander looks torn for a split second, then he looks at him from below his eyelashes and says, “I'll be back in five”. And he kisses him on the cheek, which causes Aaron's brain to short-circuit entirely.

Alex is a very good dancer. He has his eyes fixed upon him while he strolls along with the girl, who has reached him at last; in no time, he's leading her into a salsa. He keeps his eyes on her face and he speaks his way through the dance, which is just what Aaron expected; he moves like he was born to do this, his body adjusting to the music like it's in his nature. His hips are capable of doing sinfully things, and Aaron decides to avert his eyes and avoid probable problems. Alex had lied before: he's good at leading, which means that he has somehow understood Aaron's feelings about the matter.

It's ridiculous how much Alexander has been capable of reading him even though he has never acted anything but normal, even though Alex is always telling him how hard he is to understand.   
  


* * *

  
When Alex comes back he's hot and bothered but not at all tired, and Aaron wants to do unholy things to him. He tries to tell himself that it's the alcohol talking, but yeah, it's not.

“Shots!” he exclaims while he's still trying to catch his breath. “C'mon, a tequila shot and we dance – don't make that face, you owe me a dance!”

“I do _not_ owe you a dance”, Aaron clarifies, but he follows him anyway. He watches as the bartender – Alex is talking his ears off as well, _for god's sake_ – pours two shots of tequila, hands them a slice of lime each, pours way too much salt on his left hand.

“L'chaim!” shouts Alexander before chugging down his shot and turning expectantly towards Aaron. Things are slower and more blurred now, but he figures out why he has so much salt on his hand and Alex apparently has none; he licks away a strip of salt from his own skin and offers his hand to the other. He's too intoxicated to care, or at least he's allowed himself to relax enough; Alex's lips move against his skin in a silent kiss. Then Aaron grimaces into his slice of lime.

“Let's go dance!” Alexander's voice gets louder and louder, or maybe it's just the alcohol's effect. Aaron lets him lead him where other couples are waiting for a song to start. “You lead”, he says; he grips his right hand, runs his other hand up his forearm before resting it on his shoulder.

The music starts almost unexpectedly, and Aaron quickly recognizes this tune: “A tango”, he says, and he waits for a response as Alex's eyes glimmer in the light. “Yeah”, he hears at last; and he goes, almost out of instinct, “But we're two boys.”

Alex pulls a peculiar face at that. He huffs, and says, “Whatever, I've grown up here”.

“You came here at 17!”

“That's not the point, Aaron! Come on, if you don't want to we can-”

“I'm not that good. Haven't danced in a while”.

Alexander smiles his wicked grin, pulls him in. “Just trust me. You'll be fine.”

Just like that, they're dancing. Sure, Aaron is not great, he hesitates when he doesn't know which way to move or if they should turn, he has to force himself not to look at his feet, but Alex has a way of guiding him with his body. He is sure and quick, does even the more complicated steps, trusting that Aaron's grip will not fail him. For the first minute, he counts the steps under his breath, eyes fixed into Aaron's; once the latter has eased himself into it he allows himself to have fun.

He manages to talk, somehow; he says, “You're not that bad of a dancer”, “Slow down a little here”, “Pick up the pace”. Aaron feels ridiculous, so entranced by the light in his eyes and the flush on his cheeks. They seem to gravitate toward one another, and Aaron leans down until he's at eye level with him; at a certain point Alexander makes himself twirl out of the embrace, does something that looks very complicated and orders, “Pull me in”. Aaron does so; they're chest to chest, much closer than before. Alex's breath is warm, and it tickles his neck.

“Follow me”, he says, probably well aware of the effect he's having on Aaron. “One, two, three”; he counts; “Slow”, as he kicks out with his leg, doing something Aaron's not watching, preferring to keep his eyes on Alex's keen face. “Should've worn a dress”, Alexander says as he lets himself be pulled back by Aaron; they turn, then, “Stop”, and the music stops with them for a beat. Meanwhile Alex has done that complicated leg thing again, takes a half-step back and lets himself slide, ends up with his face against Aaron's shoulder. Aaron gets the hang of it: as the rhythm picks up he pulls Alex in, and the boy's face ends up against his. “You should”, Aaron says, “wear a dress, I mean. Maybe the next time.”

“Will there be a next time?”, Alexander asks, raising his eyebrows even though Aaron can't actually see him. “I hope so”, comes the reply.

Alexander pulls back the littlest bit, enough to look Aaron in the eyes. “You trust me?” he actually waits for his nod. “Good. Hold me tight, I'm gonna let myself fall- trust me!”, he reiterates at Aaron's evident disbelief.

So he does; on the last beat he arches his back, bends away, brings Aaron along with him.  
  


* * *

  
They exit the club after a couple more dances and too many shots; even the cold night air of New York can't cool them down. They hang to each other for dear life; Aaron, the slightest bit more sober and responsible than Alexander, convinces him to spend the night at his place.

The taxi ride fades into oblivion as Alex's head rests upon Aaron's shoulder, bodies still close to counteract the chill. It eventually starts to rain.

They make it to Aaron's flat at nearly 3am in the morning. Alex insists he'll take the sofa, he won't get much sleep anyway; Aaron is not sure but has no strength to fight his stubbornness. They settle on the bundle of blankets Alex is meant to sleep under for one more moment; Alexander tries to pull Aaron in and sleep using  _him_  as a blanket instead, but Aaron says the sofa is not big enough to fit them both and who is he to contradict Aaron?

Alex tries to pull him in again, aiming for his lips and visibly failing.

“Alexander”, Aaron reasons with him, “We're both drunk and tired, and I want this so much, but I need your consent and the certainty I'll remember it tomorrow morning”. He tries to make his own heart calm down, ignores the frantic beats. He leans in and leaves a kiss on his cheek, since that seems to be a thing now.

Alexander tries to snatch a kiss again, and Aaron somehow founds himself tracing his thumb against his lips and holding them shut. Alex sucks his finger in and, before Aaron can pull away, twirls his tongue against the digit. He elicits a groan from Aaron, welcomes it with satisfaction, but Aaron pulls himself up on unsteady legs, ignores his whimper and says, loud and clear, “Goodnight, Alexander”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you have to thank the club's scene in In The Heights for this, tbh - I've even managed to sneak in a few mentions to that, i love it so much  
> hmu on [tumblr](http://unhookingstarswithoutpermission.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/imonthetardis)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Then he realizes._ Shit.  
>  _Evidently the whole situation has made him a little bit confused, which is to be expected, really, when he has a drunk, horny Alexander sleeping on his couch – probably already up and running, maybe not even in his flat anymore,_ god please let him still be in the flat. _He is well aware there is no such thing as preparation in this case: he has to go in his living room and face a hangover Alex while keeping his own hangover at bay._  
>  I could make him breakfast, _he thinks,_ if he's still here. _He searches for acceptable slippers and heads in where the object of his fears is._ If he's here, _he says to himself again, not allowing himself to have too much hope, because it would hurt too badly if Alex wasn't there after all,_ maybe we're gonna solve that consent problem of last night. _And so long to not hoping._

Aaron wakes up not to the sound of his alarm, but of his own accord, which is weird. He is dressed, which is quite unusual for someone who uses to sleep naked; so he thinks he was cold last night, whatever, who cares. Groggily, he turns around, tangling himself in the sheets and hiding his face in a pillow. It takes him all of three seconds before the memories flow in again, sweet and slow-paced like syrup, and as they fill his mind he finds himself thinking that his dreams have gotten more realistic.

Then he realizes. _Shit_.

Evidently the whole situation has made him a little bit confused, which is to be expected, really, when he has a drunk, horny Alexander sleeping on his couch – probably already up and running, maybe not even in his flat anymore, _god please let him still be in the flat_. He is well aware there is no such thing as preparation in this case: he has to go in his living room and face a hangover Alex while keeping his own hangover at bay.

 _I could make him breakfast_ , he thinks, _if he's still here_. He searches for acceptable slippers and heads in where the object of his fears is. _If he's here_ , he says to himself again, not allowing himself to have too much hope, because it would hurt too badly if Alex wasn't there after all, _maybe we're gonna solve that consent problem of last night_. And so long to not hoping.

His living room is a sight to be seen. For some reason, they thought that discarding their coat and leaving them on the floor was a good idea; Aaron recognizes his own scarf on the ground, which is quite unsettling. The table is off to the side, probably because otherwise Alex would have tumbled over it; the couch is turned too much to the right. On the couch there is a still sleeping, beautiful, quite exhausted man who has filled Aaron's dreams for too long. He's dying with the want of kissing him awake.

He doesn't; instead, he pads in the kitchen, discarding his slippers and preferring to be barefoot. He switches the buttons on his coffeemaker and starts rummaging through the drawers to find out what they can have for breakfast. He decides for pancakes, starts putting together the batter as quietly as he can, humming to himself and finding himself admiring Alexander in awe. It's not his fault if his brain decides it would be a great idea to memorize the way Alex's hair sweep on the curve of his shoulders, how his chest rises in slow and steady beats; he seems so young while asleep.

Aaron is almost done with the pancakes, has stacked them neatly on two plates and is wondering how he will manage to wake Alexander when a loud groan and the squeaking of the sofa makes him realize that maybe he won't have to. Alex mumbles “G'morning” and Aaron has to stop and calm the frantic beat of his heart before he can turn around and face him. “Good morning”, he replies, smiling fondly at Alex's look of utter confusion. “I'm making breakfast”, he offers, amused at the way Alexander sniffles the air and then exclaims “Pancakes!” like an excited child.

Aaron smiles to himself again and turns around, facing the stove, finishing up the stacks and shutting off the coffeemaker. He doesn't hear Alex's quiet steps, so he's taken by surprise by the peck on the cheek he receives along with another, softer, almost inaudible “Morning”, which makes him lean into where Alexander is half holding him. He almost returns the kiss, decides against it; but he says, “Can you set up the table? Things are in top left drawer”. Alexander smirks and replies, “Yes sir”, before complying. Meanwhile, Aaron is setting their respective breakfasts on the table, without sparing him a glance, refusing to think for a moment more of the warm bundle of feelings which have taken place deep in his stomach.

He hears Alex groan and, since he can't understand if he's annoyed or in pain, he turns around and begins asking, “Are you hang-” but he stops as he's welcomed with the sight of Alex standing on his tiptoes, trying to reach his cutlery and failing. If Aaron bursts out laughing it's certainly not his own fault; but Alex does, however, manage to crane his neck enough to glare at him while he's still standing on his tiptoes. Aaron reaches out to help him, and he's easily and safely taken glasses and forks for both of them before he realizes he's practically embracing Alexander from behind. He pulls away as quickly as he can without giving any hints of his panic, but he doesn't manage to turn around: Alexander's already facing him. Aaron's hands are on the counter now, where he has left their things, so he's still embracing Alex in a way; and Alexander is so near, especially when his face is turned upwards like this. If Aaron were to lower his own face the littlest bit he would be kissing him, as he's dying to do. Alex's eyes are wide, open, trusting; he should have been talking by now but he isn't, instead he's just looking, just waiting; Aaron should be the one doing the first move. He does, in a way; he kisses his forehead, grazes his cheek with a kiss mirroring the one Alex gave him, making sure his lips are on the corner of his mouth without touching it.

They intend to make their way to the table, eat their breakfast over small talk and then, later, have a talk like adults about what this is and what they are, if there's a they at all; this is Aaron's plan, at least, and he'd be surprised to know how similar Alex's intentions are; but incidents happen.

Alexander thinks that it'd be a good idea if he'd reach out for the stripe of dark skin that Aaron's shirt is not covering; the problem is that Aaron is not only really sensible to tickling, but also really quick to react. So Alex ends up pinned against the wall, Aaron's hand holding his wrist against it; Alex doesn't straight out moan but his breath and pulse do quicken, which causes Aaron to release his wrist and move like he's stepping away. Alexander pulls him in, places his hand against his hips. He doesn't realize he's trembling until Aaron's hand graces his jaw in a caress. “Kiss me”, Alex breathes out, more desperate and less steady than he'd wished. Aaron leans in, one hand against his neck and the other around his hip; Alex raises his arms until he has them circling the back of his neck. Aaron stops for a second when he's already so close, his breath warm and hesitant against Alex's lips; Alex can't help but murmur, “Aaron please”, high-pitched and pliant. Aaron doesn't reply, but he fills the distance and burns a bridge.  
  


* * *

  
There are memories. He doesn't realize what they are, at first, but he feels them so close and vivid they can't be anything but memories of a time that seems – that _is_ – so far away.

He sees things like he's being put into old style photographs of New York: and he thinks, as he walks down the streets, that New York's always been beautiful, even in 1800. He sees a woman, recognizes her as similar to him even though there is no likeliness at all; she seems lively and cheerful and lovely; the man by her side reminds him of strictness and the smell of old books, yet he associates him with home as well. He feels – and that scares him, that he can _feel_ things, not only _see_ them – the same aching pain he's felt when he was young and left alone, him against the world; then he sees a old man, who is nothing like home, and a dashing building he has attended in both lives. He sees a graduation, how he's the youngest in the room and the brightest and the loneliest. Then the war, 32000 ships in New York Harbor; the Sons of Liberty, an odd group to say the least.

Then there's _him_ : beautiful and broken and relentless, everything seems to revolve around him, everything eventually does. He gives him a name, Hamilton; he seems to be always there, during the war and afterwards, living in the house next to his in downtown New York, working with him and then against him; in the Senate, in the Cabinet.

He sees a woman, beautiful like the sun, dark hair and even darker eyes, and a baby with the same dark hair but lighter eyes; he recognizes both of them as Theodosia, feels the burning pain of the first woman half-dead in their bed; he hears her last words, thinks he will reveal them to Theodosia before he dies. He feels the emptiness of a hole nothing can ever fill again.

He sees dawn over New Jersey, smells gun powder and alcohol; a quill scratches the words, “yr obdnt srvnt”, a gunshot piercing the air; his own voice, he screams, “Wait!”, he mumbles, “Alexander”.

 _Alexander_.

Everything fast-forwards then, as if nothing matters afterwards; the last fit of wrenching pain as he murmurs his wife's last words at their daughter's death bed; then nothing, far from home and lonely again, as Alexander haunts his dreams most nights.  
  


* * *

  
“Wait!”, he manages to cry before Alex is slamming the door and running away. Aaron thinks, _history repeats itself; it's better if we stay away_. (He doesn't want to stay away).

He feels only numbness as he continues watching the door. He doesn't cry. (He didn't cry back then, either).  
  


* * *

  
As much as history repeats itself, it's rarely so cruel: in fact, even though back then Alex meant little to Aaron – he was just a memory of cold New York nights and drunk escapades – now he's fallen in love with him as he had never done, slowly and steadily.

They are forced to see each other every day: Alex doesn't linger by his desk anymore, and the ghost of his warm hand on his arms and of his negligible weight leaning on his shoulder makes him shudder. He feels, rather than sees, the hurt and angry gazes Alex directs at him from the other side of the room. He's still getting flashbacks of his former life, now and then: in a couple of minutes he'll see once again navy and gold uniforms, he'll hear jokes and song and the way glasses used to clink together. Sometimes he's left wondering if they are proper memories or facts he's made up.

What he knows is that he has done Alex wrong in so many ways, and he'll never forgive himself: he guesses, perhaps perceives, that Alex's friendship was never lost on him, that his own stubbornness to not let anyone in must have taken the wheel.

He looks at Alexander, too; he's sure if he talked to anyone else they wouldn't notice the change, just state that he's tired as always but a little more silent. Aaron sees the dark circles under his eyes get deeper and darker, speaking of night spent wide awake instead of getting little sleep; he's become slower, somewhat more careful; he's waiting for something. Aaron has learned the hard way he can't bear Alexander in wait, used as he is to be the one still and calm; but he doesn't understand what Alexander may want. Not an apology, this much he knows; maybe a recognition, an explanation. He doesn't know.

If Alex thinks he'll take a stand, he's wrong – but this time, not because Aaron doesn't want to: because he doesn't know how.  
  


* * *

  
He should have known better. He should have thought, he should have guessed: Alexander's strength has always lain in his pen, why should that, of all things, have changed?

He is, to say the least, surprised, when he finds the note on his desk, safely tucked beneath his keyboard. He calls himself a thoughtless stupid, and he doesn't have to wonder: there's only one person in his life that would rather write than talk.

He feels the slightest bit guilty when he realizes he's making Alex take the first step even though he is the one who did him wrong.

Aaron is not surprised when he realizes he still remembers Alex's handwriting; he doesn't give it a second thought when he sees that it hasn't changed. What gets him down, however, are the words scribbled on the tiny piece of paper; Alexander has written, pressing down with his pen so much that Aaron can feel the words grazing his fingertips beneath the paper, “silent treatment?”

Aaron feels the burning desire to be in Alex's mind even for just a split second, to know how his brain works. His choice of words is ridiculous, but if he knows him at all, it is not tentative nor rushed; he wonders how many sheets of paper he has thrown away while figuring out what to write. He knows – they'd shared a tent during the war – that Alex never hesitated when writing to Eliza, and made sure that the letters he wouldn't – couldn't – ever send to John went up in flames. He never got to see how Alex behaved while writing to him; he thinks it would be most interesting. But then, what does one write to the man who killed him in another life?

And, an even more difficult question, what does one reply to the man he killed in another life?

He should apologize, probably. He should say he's willing to keep himself at a distance. And Alex should be angry, he shouldn't write to him using such a light tone.

When everyone is gone, the office still, almost deadly so – Alexander, the last to leave, gazed at him before exiting – Aaron reaches for a piece of paper. His own writing is clear, quick, elegant; he traces the letters carefully. “I will never understand you”, he writes, and it seems wrong. He scrunches the paper in a ball and gets another piece.

He writes, “What should I do?”, and thinks about adding, shaking letters and hidden cursive, “I am sorry”. If he was honest with himself, he should write “I'm afraid”, too. But it isn't that Aaron doesn't want to be honest, both with himself and with Alexander: he doesn't want to hurt. Neither himself nor Alexander, but that will probably be impossible.  
  


* * *

  
Alex's note is not there the morning after – of course – but Aaron can practically feel the way his eyes are tracked on him the whole day. He does his best to not feel overwhelmed; he avoids him all day long, for how long he can while working in the same office. He does notice, however, that he's silent and pensive; it's a strange look on Alex.

Two days after his own note, Aaron founds another piece of paper, this time tucked under a book he's left on his desk the day before. “Talk to me”, Alex has written, swirling and incomprehensible – both the calligraphy and the phrase itself.

Aaron waits, but not as long as the last time; after lunch break – or, to tell it another way, after the ten minutes of rest Alex grants himself – he sees how discreetly Alexander picks up his reply. “Why do you want me to?”, he wrote, because it's obvious – because Alex's beating around the bush and he doesn't like it. Alexander's hands tremble, or maybe it's just the air shaking the paper – Aaron diverts his eyes before Alex can catch him staring.

Yet again, Aaron is the last to leave. He almost doesn't notice it – secured between his desk and his computer, almost invisible, “It's something that happened once, in a dream”.

Even though he doesn't want to be the one to strike the killing blow , Aaron knows he has to – Alex's impossible hopes will make them sink. Again. “It's not”, he writes.  
  


* * *

  
The night after that, Aaron gets a text.

“Passing notes like that is childish”, it says. “I'm coming to your place”.

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aaron realizes he has not heard a word from Alexander in too long a time: silence is strange when they are together. Aaron does what he is best at, he waits._   
>  _“Why'd you do it?” Alex asks, voice rough and broken and the slightest shade of desperate, and Aaron's heart breaks for the umpteenth time. Suddenly, Alex isn't a day older than 21 and a bit; the image of him, 50 and on the verge of death, doesn't overlap with the present anymore._   
>  _“I had no other option”, Aaron replies, more hastily than he intended. He had trusted himself to be calm and placid, but his voice betrays the tears he has shed since the revelation: maybe that is the reason Alexander's head snaps up to look at him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, I've finally done it. I was really bad at handling this work, I had all planned it out at the end of last summer and it took me months to end it, but since this is the first long story I've ever written and since I've gone through a lot during the last months, I can't help but be a little proud of myself. I hope you enjoy it.

Aaron doesn't think for a second that Alex is joking – he knows him too well.

He opens the door as soon as the bell rings. Alexander is standing inches away from him, pointedly avoiding his eyes: instead he lets his gaze wander around what he can see of the apartment until Aaron steps aside, silently inviting him to come in. There's a beat when they are both frozen in place, and Aaron fears that Alex is going to punch him – it would be fair. But then Alex is stepping inside, staring at the floor while Aaron closes the door and looks at him.

Aaron realizes he has not heard a word from Alexander in too long a time: silence is strange when they are together. Aaron does what he is best at, he waits.

“Why'd you do it?” Alex asks, voice rough and broken and the slightest shade of desperate, and Aaron's heart breaks for the umpteenth time. Suddenly, Alex isn't a day older than 21 and a bit; the image of him, 50 and on the verge of death, doesn't overlap with the present anymore. 

“I had no other option”, Aaron replies, more hastily than he intended. He had trusted himself to be calm and placid, but his voice betrays the tears he has shed since the revelation: maybe that is the reason Alexander's head snaps up to look at him.

“You could have shot in the air,” only silence answers to Alex's statement. “That's what I did!”, he shouts, angry at himself and angry at the Burr that, in his memories, fires his gun even though he had no real reason to.

Aaron feels the weight of a gun in his hand and the smell of gunpowder burning his nostrils and his throat; he remembers how he was frozen in that spot afterwards, not dead but neither alive. “I was expecting to die”, he blurts out, and he can't persuade himself that he said it just to convince Alex. He ignores the incredulous “What?” that reaches his ears and goes on, allowing himself to speak with an earnestness he has never had before. “You were a soldier with a marksman ability; I saw you shot British soldiers down from the other end of the field. I thought – at best, I thought that both of us would stay alive, or that I would die – even if I shot, how could I know I'd hit you, it was the first duel I ever-”

“You wanted to die”, Alex repeats, carefully not letting his emotions show through.

“I did not- maybe, maybe I did.” Aaron exhales, feeling panic crawling up his spine. _Breathe_. “My wife was long dead, my daughter was settled, I was a failure; I did not have anything to live for”. As he spoke about it, he could feel the memories creep through: everything was dark and cold and he just wanted it to _end, god damn it_ \- “I would have died proudly, in a duel, defending my honor; there hardly was a better death to wish for”.

Alexander is closer now. He can feel him at his side; he can imagine how he is fidgeting to avoid touching him and comforting him. “Then why'd you shoot?”, he asks, low and gentle.

“Because – because you were so _smug_ , Alexander. You were annoying and full of yourself, and I was convinced that you wanted me dead, the way you adjusted your glasses and examined the terrain – I discovered years later that _he_ died there”. It's not a justification, just a statement. “And I thought of leaving Theodosia alone, I would have done anything not to make her live like I had to. You would have done the same for your children”. Alex's hand is kind and warm against his arm, and it calms Aaron down enough to make him realize there are tears streaming down his face. He wonders if Alexander is crying, too.

“I'm sorry.” He doesn't turn around to see how Alex is bearing the discussion. “I know I will never atone that, but- I'm sorry- if this means anything.”

“Burr”, Alexander whispers, and he doesn't miss the way the other shivers. “Aaron”, he tries again, and he's welcome by the stillness he's grown used to. “Turn around, please, look at me”, he adds, and Aaron complies, even if he isn't quite looking at him. “I don't want to forgive, or to forget. You're right, it's impossible – it's not another life's story, it's _our_ story. But I want to give you, to give _us_ a chance – we have another one, we should not waste it.” Alexander is breathless by the end of his little speech, and his words are absurd enough that Aaron's gaze is back on his eyes. Aaron is unreadable, stone-like, and Alex childishly spreads his arms. He is amazed when Aaron steps into the embrace without missing a beat, when he rests his head on his shoulder to hide the tears that are still spilling, but he thinks to himself, _I can work with this_.

* * *

 Even though their peculiar relationship is not at risk anymore, things can't, and don't, become better with a simple talk.

There are bad days, very bad days, when the simple sound of Aaron's voice calling out his name makes Alexander shiver all over and retreat into himself. He tries to push himself through those moments, knowing well enough how much he's hurting Aaron and that neither of them deserve to deny themselves of the other's presence, but the memory of a gun going off is never far enough that it doesn't reach them. Alexander, stubborn as a mule, tries to hug and talk and stand close to Aaron as he'd do on a _okay_ day; he refuses to acknowledge the way his hands tremble or how he instinctively pulls away when Aaron gets too close. So Aaron forces him to take it slow; caring and calm, careful not to show the slightest sign of discomfort of his own, he tells Alexander how they must treat this with the same attention they'd give to a wound which is keen to become infected too easily. They start with simple things: Aaron touches Alexander's arm at first, then he holds his hand; he never applies too much pressure, he's quick to let go if he's not comfortable. They are still too afraid to kiss each other, fearing that it will trigger some other kind of reaction from their fucked up brains.

On the bad days, Alexander's memories come back like avalanches. They deprive him of his breath, he doesn't even have the time to react before he's already drowning in a sea of unwanted feelings. Sometimes they just look like faded vintage photos: somewhere, in a corner of his mind, the curve of John's smile appears; then it's Hercules', Lafayette's; Burr's too, eventually. (That _does_ brighten his day a bit). He remembers the sound of Washington addressing him as son, how he never truly minded it; Peggy hugging him every time they met even though she shouldn't, Angelica flirting shamelessly and getting away with it every time. His dearest Eliza dressed in white on their wedding day. When those memories appear, the weight on his shoulder is a little bit more lighter. He falls into Aaron's arms and hopes that this time it'll be good.

It never lasts long: there are memories which don't have any filter, any kindness to them; they strike him and hit him hard in the chest, have him dizzy and unable to cope. He remembers John's death, then Philip's: they hurt even more than his parents'.

When Aaron remembers, he does so quietly: he tries not to tell Alexander, afraid that he will trigger his memories. He is grateful that he gets time to cope with them, to elaborate his feelings and separate them from those he experiences in his current life. Sometimes, Alexander catches him staring at the walls or out the window; he sits next to him, how near depends on the day, and he asks him to talk. He never specifies what he wants him to talk about; he's unusually concise every time. Aaron shares the little things, which are the ones he remembers better: he tells him about the first time he saw Theodosia, the way his daughter teased him mercilessly about his bad French accent. “Do you remember any of it?”, Alex asks then, and Aaron freezes for a second. “What?”, he says, slowly, and Alex replies, “French!”. Aaron shakes his head curtly, causing Alex's cheerful outburst, “I gotta teach you that!”. Aaron raises an eyebrow, says, “Sure”; for the rest of the day everything is alright, everything is like it was before.

The day Alex remembers the deaths (he will not say their names, he _can't_ ) Aaron calls in sick for both of them, ignoring the protests Alexander manages to make even while he has tears falling down his cheeks. Instead, he tells him to go back to bed; it's not a suggestion, it's not an order; Alexander complies. Aaron doesn't try to hold his hand, he doesn't even think about joining him. He's taken aback from the silence: Alex cries in utter silence, trying to hide his tears even from Aaron's loving gaze. He knows how much harm the absence of words can make, he's aware of the way Alexander's brains supplies hurtful words when there's silence, so _he_ talks. He has much to say, he finds out; he's quite a good storyteller. Theodosia died in her bed after months of sickness, he remembers; she had cancer, she was so thin, she couldn't even talk from the pain in her last months. He describes the way her veins could be easily seen through her skin, how she wouldn't eat. Alexander is not crying anymore: amazed, he's looking at Aaron through his eyelashes. Theodosia, _my daughter_ (Aaron's voice breaks on the word, he feels close to tears himself), was so brilliant, so much similar to her mother, and to his mother, too; _parents shouldn't ever bury their children_ , he says, and Alex's hand catches his. Aaron is trembling.

“Come here”, Alex says; Aaron stays put. “Aaron, please”, he begs, and tugs on his hand. He meets his eyes and smiles, soft and sweet and warm, and Aaron takes a breath before tugging off his shirt and his socks, making his way to the bed feeling like he's floating on thin air. He takes the empty side, curls on himself facing away from Alexander; the tears prickling the corners of his eyes refuse to come down, he feels his throat aching and burning and he can't speak. He can't, he can't: he feels like he's dying all over again, like he's watching _them_ die all over again; this time his head is full of white noise and not of the screams surrounding him; he can't breathe anymore.

“Aaron, you're panicking”, comes Alex's voice from just behind him. _I figured that much_ , Aaron thinks; then, _fuck, I should be the one doing the consoling here, what the hell is happening_. Alex is careful not to touch him; instead he gives him instructions on how to breathe properly, he stays put and still, he remembers where he is and when and whom he's with. Eventually, the world stops spinning. His cheeks are wet with tears but he's breathing regularly; Alex counts his breaths and nudges him, an invitation for him to turn over. He doesn't. “I'm sorry”, he says instead; he hates how his voice breaks.

“Nothing to be sorry for”, Alex replies, and then he pleads again, “please, Aaron”. Aaron closes his eyes and turns around. “Look at me”, he hears; he does. Alex reaches out for him: he caresses his face soothingly, wipes the tracks of the tears with his thumbs. He whispers, “You're allowed to be weak, love”, and that scares Aaron like crazy, the implication that maybe he can't do this. He doesn't say that. He allows Alexander to scoot closer, to tangle their legs together and to kiss his forehead; gently, Aaron lifts his glasses away from his face and he's rewarded with a brush of lips against his palm. Alex touches his forehead with his; he promises, “We'll be fine”.

Aaron doesn't believe him, but – just because it's him, and no matter how much he hates recognizes it, he's almost always right – he's willing to give it a try.

* * *

“Aaron?” comes Alexander's voice, soft and scared in the dark. Aaron adjusts in the bed, not even trying to fake that he was sleeping: he had been tainted with nightmares all night long, since they had apparently decided to synchronize with Alexander's own terrors.

“Yes, darling?”, the endearment escapes his lips before he can even think about it, but eventually he just shrugs and tries not to think about it. He can almost see the way Alex smiles, childish and glowing; only then he realizes they must have set apart in their sleep, since they are not touching.

Promptly, Alexander murmurs, “Hold me”; Aaron complies.

“I want to kiss you”, Alexander murmurs, scooting closer to the other. Aaron tightens his hold, settles his hands flat on his hips; his thumbs catches the bare skin where his shirt has ridden up, he caresses it gently. He doesn't speak. “I want to kiss you”, Alex repeats, this time louder, “But I'm afraid-”

“Of me?” Aaron interrupts, calm and steady and sharp like a knife. He feels something inside his chest snap at the mere thought of Alex being scared of him.

Before panic can crawl its way up his back, though, Alexander's voice gets louder when he replies, “No – never!”. He shivers, the memory of a gun going off in his brain; he gets even closer, until he's lying flat against Aaron, chest against chest and forehead against forehead. “Aaron”, he whispers. “Aaron”, he says again.

“Yeah, that's my name.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Alexander honest-to-god shrieks, hits him on the shoulder with the violence of an angry kitten and then finally laughs like he hasn't laughed in weeks. “This is not the right time for your sassiness!”

“It's always the right time for my sassiness, thank you very much”.

“Fuck you!”

“Bit repetitive, aren't you?”

Aaron, satisfied with his result, raises his head. Alexander is propped up against the multiple pillows he surrounds himself with while he sleeps, long strands of hair falling out his messy ponytail, a wide grin splitting his face. The moonlight hits him in a way that should be illegal or immoral, maybe both. _He's beautiful_ , Aaron thinks, and only when he meets Alexander's amazed gaze he knows he has actually uttered it out loud.

“Goddammit, Aaron”, Alex says, scooting closer once again, and then, “I'm so in love with you it's not even funny”.

“Alex-”, Aaron replies, and suddenly he can't look at him anymore without feeling guilty and horrible. He thinks, _this should not happen: he should hate me and I would still be lucky that he even acknowledges me, he shouldn't- he shouldn't-_

“Please, talk to me”, Alexander begs.

Aaron looks up at him through his eyelashes. Alex is worrying his lower lip, nervously trembling all over the place. Something warm sets off in Aaron's stomach, spreads all the way through his chest. “You make me feel like a goddamn 16-year-old”, he says at last.

Alexander's smile lights up the whole room. “I can work with that”, he states, then he allows himself to get back where he was, this time facing Aaron with his eyes wide open. Slowly, gently, giving him the time to pull back, he brings his thumb up to his face and traces the light crease on his brow, the sharp cheekbone, the hollow of his cheeks, while staring into his eyes. Then his gaze lowers and his finger graces the curve of his lips, presses slightly onto the bottom one. Aaron lets out a shaky breath as the feeling of the pressure, and his brain seems to have shut when he almost moans, “Alexander please-”

The one addressed whimpers, backs away, murmurs, “I'm scared of what we'll see this time”, he seems to think about it, and he suddenly shudders all over. “If we'll see anything at all”.

Aaron's eyes become even wider at his words. “Don't worry”, he says, regaining almost total control of himself, afraid that he's going to trigger Alexander someway. He takes him by the wrist, snatches a kiss on the palm of his hand before lowering it and placing it against his chest, linking their fingers together. “We don't have to do anything, anything at all”, he continues. “If it helps calm you down, well, you should know that I am afraid of this too, but I think that there are few things as scary as feeling our own deaths while being alive, and we have survived that. But you don't need to kiss me or anything else, you don't owe me anything at all, Alex”. _I owe you my life_ – he doesn't say that.

Aaron didn't exactly enjoy his first, and last, kiss with Alexander – he hadn't had the time, really, neither the will to analize any further feelings that would have just aggravated their situation. This time it's different, though: he slides his hands all the way down to his hips, reveling in the shivers he gets while running his fingers down his spine. Alex doesn't kiss like he thought he would; it isn't like the last time, either, when they were hurried and sleepy and a little horny. Alex's lips are gentle and slow against his, chaste in a way that doesn't match his altered breath; Alex's hands are kind, careful against his skin, feather light on his neck and not pulling him in. As soon as Aaron realizes Alex will not deepen the kiss he steadies his stance, leaves one hand on his hips and raises the other to his cheek, nibbles his lips: yet he remains gentle, offering an invitation and nothing more. Alex gasps, which makes Aaron smirk in the kiss, and as if in retaliation Alex catches the moment to part his lips and suddenly Aaron doesn't understand anything anymore. Alex manages to wipe all his thoughts away with his skilled tongue alone – he should have known.

When they break apart, gasping for breath, Alex decides that it'd be a good idea to peck and bite his way down his jaw and Aaron simultaneously focuses his mind on not fainting – or worse – under Alex's ministrations.

“Alexander”, Aaron whispers, every syllable feeling like honey on his tongue, like the stupid mix of coffee and mint that's left in his mouth, and he kisses him again just because he can. He pulls back out of breath, goes to look at his face and finds him wide-eyed and blushing, lips swollen and parted. “I love you so much”, he murmurs against his mouth, not caring about anything else for once.

“I can work with that”, Alex grins in response, and kisses any further remark off Aaron's lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who commented, bookmarked or even just read this story, both here and on tumblr: your support meant a lot to me. I hope I didn't let you down, and I hope that I will get the chance to write something else in this fandom. Thank you so much.  
> Raise a glass. 
> 
> (i'm here on [tumblr](http://unhookingstarswithoutpermission.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/imonthetardis))

**Author's Note:**

> look at this pining idiots, lol  
> i'm gonna try and update as regularly as i can, since i have most of this already written, but i have to edit it (and I hate to edit stuff)  
> hmu on [tumblr](http://unhookingstarswithoutpermission.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/imonthetardis)


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